


Rooftop Access

by Velegathra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Neurodiversity, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16760098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velegathra/pseuds/Velegathra
Summary: An exhausting case followed by the inevitable outcome for Sherlock.





	Rooftop Access

His head was a mess. Thoughts and drafts of sentences and pictures and concepts and little snippets of film and smells. He needed to get out and here he was. The roof was still wet. He smelled the tar, pigeon shit, rodent shit. On the floor beneath his knees were some old cigarette butts over a month old. Female smoker. He closed his eyes. He could read more. He didn't want to know.

A car honked down below, the city sounds floating up. He curled in further on himself pulling his knees tighter. 

This was a moment of utter self hatred for him. Being weak, failing in front of others, being slow, not catching up on what people meant, he was used to that. Failing John was something other. His nails dug into his wrists. He felt sick. It always turned out like that. He shouldn't have come in the first place. Breathing became harder. He gripped his wrists closer and focussed. Hyperventilating was no option, never actually was.

* * *

The last weeks had been hard. The case setting were shopping malls of all things. A french team of investigators had been sent to London to work together with the Yard. Catching the serial killer did not only afford watching hours and hours of video footage, it also required him actually BEING in a mall. He had eventually found the guy when he pulled his 5th victim, the second in London. A chase couldn't be avoided but they made it before the kill. The whole mall thing had him on the edge. He felt like staying at home and not leave his room after the first day there. At the end he had spent more than a full week visiting a mall each day. 

The french team was good, but he also had to step in from time to time to smooth the edges with the Yarders. This was something he normally would never do, but he was the only one who spoke french really well and he **_DID_** know the culture. So he sometimes had to do a little translating even if the french forces spoke really decent english. The cultures clashing was actually much worse as he had to act as a buffer zone. He had never been very compatible being himself and right now he had spent weeks forcing a team to work together. 

He had felt the situation slowly killing him, each day getting worse, grinding down like a millstone. But he pushed through knowing that it would only last till he found the murderer. He had made it, and he had crashed on the sofa for one day, but the french team would leave and Lestrade had organised a farewell party. And John who had helped him and steered him trough this socialising nightmare of a case had insisted on going. 

Sherlock _**KNEW**_ that this was a horrible idea but when he looked at John he was lost. John would absolutely love going, and he wanted to have a good time and he wanted to have it with Sherlock. How could he deny it to him. It was what John craved. Social interaction.

He had slipped from the party when he couldn't breath anymore. He had actually made it through 45 minutes of conversation and less than mediocre food. John was having a good time catting up the smart french inspector. She had features commonly considered as attractive. A symmetric face, well groomed hair and an athletic body, slightly taller than John. Sherlock understood all that. He even considered her fairly intelligent. But her voice was horrible shrill and her laugh made him cringe. It was not her fault. It was his own fault for being ridiculously sensitive. 

When a drunk Anderson clutched his shoulder from behind and leaned in on him, breathing a disgusting mix of alcohol and food smells into his face while trying to tell him some nonsense Sherlock mind snapped. It had always been like that. His animal brain made decisions easy and dropped him into the backseat. He watched himself push Anderson towards the bar clapping his back awkwardly and ordering another drink. His skin crawled from all the unwanted touch. He wanted to scratch and wash it away. He felt sick but his autopilot mode was still flawless.

He made a beeline avoiding touch as good as possible while approaching the emergency exit door to the staircase. No one used these. Everyone took the lift. Lestrade waved him over but he ignored it. When the door closed behind him and the lights flared on illuminating dirty stairs he let out a breath. His shoulders slumped. He made his way up five stories to the roof exit running, just getting away. Above his head behind the plastic shellof a lamp he found the key. Thats how people were.

He got out and crammed a piece of stone, that was clearly intended for that purpose, between door and frame. Then he took some last steps around the left corner of the rooftop access, leaned against the wall still panting from running up and allowed himself to slide down. Panic and relieve and guilt kept rolling over him. He still felt sick. He had failed John. 

Pain bloomed behind his right eye up to his temple. Thank you very much you fucking body. So migraine it was.

* * *

After half an hour, his brain was still a maelstrom of memories and impressions. Sound, smell, touch and pictures as well as short film clips of memories combined with actual input that his senses were picking up made him feel drowning. Someone was coming up the stairs. Normally he would be able to tell something about the person, but at the moment he couldn't pick out the clues from the rest that was tumbling around in his brain. 

He didn't open his eyes. When the door to the roof opened he curled in on himself tighter because of the screeching sound. He could smell John. While sight was too exhausting and painful and hearing was messy and required to rummage through a database he couldn't access properly at the moment smell was something primeval. He just knew. 

John hummed and slid down beside him, leaning against the wall. 

After some time he felt Johns hand circling his naked ankle where his trousers were slipped up a bit and his sock hand wandered down. Johns grip was firm and his hand felt burning hot. He did not remove his hand.

"You are cold. Do you want the coat?" His voice was low.

Sherlock did not know. He didn't feel like speaking. Maybe he was cold he couldn't really tell. He shrugged.

"I’d like to take you home. I can get us a cab, think you can manage that?" Johns fingers rubbed a pattern into his ankle. 

"You know, you could crash is Gregs office…" John could not end his sentence before Sherlock brought out a pained "NO" shaking his head and gripping his own arms even harder.

Lestrades office was normally not a bad place, but at the moment it would be hell. The lights were wrong and loud and the smell was leather and printer ozone and cold smoke even if Greg stopped smoking years ago. Sherlock could still smell it. It would be cold and there would be no John. 

John hummed beside him. He took away his hand and his ankle started feeling cold. He shivered. John was getting a cab online. He heard him tapping on the phone repeatedly. 

After some minutes John stood directly in front of him. "Cab’s here soon."

Sherlock opened his left eye, the right was more painful. He took Johns extended hand and let himself be pulled up. John handed him the coat. He didn’t put it on but carried it in a way so he could feel and rub the fabric repeatedly between his fingers without being noticed. 

They took the way down the stairs without entering the party again. 

Stepping out on the street was hard. The sounds and smells hit him and he wanted to hide his face into the coat in his arms but that was not appropriate. John found the cab. Sherlock felt thankful when he slid on the backseat. Focussing through all this mess on the street to see the cab would have been incredibly hard at the moment. 

He relaxed a bit when the driver put them on the road. The cab was quite new and clean. He could smell some detergent and the fading artificial new car smell that the producer put in. The cab was only half a year old. He bowed forward and put his face into the folds of his coat. He was getting warm soon, heating was on. He started feeling sick again more prominent. But asking to turn it down seemed just too tedious at the moment. He leaned his head against the cool window and felt the bumps of the road against his temple. When he pressed his head a little harder to the window each bump was a little painful and he craved the sensation of outside pain when his head had so much inside of it. Getting out of the cab and up the stairs into the cool dark flat was ok. He flinched only once when John touched his arm while he took the coat away to put it on the hanger. 

"Take a shower hm? I think you’re cold." John was right. 

Sherlock didn’t bother with the light switch and showered with only the little light that came in naturally. He didn’t bother wetting his hair. There was no way he could dry and style it properly now. 

When he entered his room he found a steaming mug of tea and drawn curtains. He really loved John for it. And for staying away when he was like that. He hated himself for doing this to John. To ruin his evening and make him go much earlier than he actually intended. 

Sherlock lay under the covers and let the chaos in his brain wash over him. After half an hour he drank his tea. After two hours it all became too much and he had to get up and walk restless through the flat. John had fallen asleep in front of the tv. He put a blanket over him. 

Somehow he always felt hungry in this stage of migraine. He ate some crackers and hoped it would be ok. He lay down again but after twenty minutes he felt heat blooming in his head and he tiredly made his way to the loo. When he had vomited everything that had been in his stomach his head felt a little bit better. He brushed his teeth and went to bed. Now he would finally be able to sleep it off. He hoped John wouldn’t notice that he had to puke. He didn’t want him to worry. He had cleaned properly afterwards, that should do.

* * *

The next day he woke up slowly. The pain was nearly gone and his thoughts felt slow and misty. The chaos had subsided. Now he had to pick up the debris after the hurricane. After half an hour ofslowly moving through his thoughts he got up. 

John was sitting at the kitchen table in his pyjamas looking down into a cup of coffee in front of him. Sherlock couldn’t bear with the smell at the moment. He went to the living room to cradle and pluck at the violin. The texture of the strings always felt soothing. He caressed them with his fingers. 

After half an hour a showered and clothed John put a blanket over Sherlock and put down a weak cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him.

Sherlock shrunk back into the couch murmuring a low "Thank you". John took the violin from his hands and put it on the coffee table as well. Then he leaned in close, tipping up Sherlocks chin with his right hand. Sherlock let himself be moved stiffly. John touching him was ok now. Yet, he felt not ready for eye contact, maybe wouldn’t today. He also was not ready for coffee breath. John had brushed his teeth thankfully. It helped a little.

John sighted. "Please. Just want to check your pupils."

Sherlock pushed himself to look to Johns face, focussing on the bride of his nose. Johns left hand flicked a light at his right eye first, then his left. He hummed appreciative and let Sherlock go.

John always worried when Sherlock suffered from migraine.

After making Sherlock eat two pieces of buttered toast both were on the couch watching crap telly, the sound turned to a low mumble.

* * *

In the early evening after John had made him eat some Spaghetti they were sitting in their chairs. John was reading a thriller when he felt Sherlocks eyes on him. He looked up and Sherlock stared into his eyes from behind his thinking pose hands. He moved slightly forward in his seat bringing himself closer to John. He looked conflicted. His hands fell down onto his knees, the movement marking a decision just made. 

"Im sorry for making you leave early." Sherlocks eyes stayed for a last second focused into Johns, then they whipped away. He got up, passing John on his way to his room when he felt a hand tucking at his sleeve. He stopped. John stood behind him. "It’s ok you know." He contemplated for a moment. "Are you really going to bed or is this just you feeling embarrassed? Cause’ then you could stay and we could watch some Stieg Larsson that is on."

John made his way to the sofa. After a minute Sherlock joined him with a blanket. John smiled to himself. A little bit into the film he let his hand rest on Sherlocks blanket covered back. When he felt no flinch he rubbed his hand up slowly, until he reached the end of the blanket at Sherlocks neck. When he touched him, rubbing heavy circles into the wiry muscles Sherlock let him. His head fell forward giving John more access. They didn’t talk. John would never fully get how much Sherlock had pushed himself to make John happy. How he had failed John again. How much he loathed himself on such occasions. But Sherlock was also very aware that John was still there. 

The next socialising thing would come up eventually. And he will walk into it fully aware that it would crush him and would make him suffer for a day or two. But then, he was never one for self preservation, Sherlock thought with a smirk while he secretly rubbed and twirled the seam of Johns jumper between his fingers.


End file.
